


i'm a wanderer now, sorrow befalls me

by fracturedvaels



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, terminal illness, timeline fudging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:50:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3206501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fracturedvaels/pseuds/fracturedvaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor receiving the Anchor has the side effect of rendering the Inquisitor effectively immortal: As long as they don't get killed in battle, they can't die.</p>
<p>Immortality isn't necessarily a good thing when all your friends and loved ones don't get to live forever, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you shouldn't be wild inside

**Author's Note:**

> Done as a fill for a kink meme prompt, found [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/12449.html?thread=48554145#t48554145). Originally posted (unedited) on my fic writing sideblog. Additional playlist found [here](http://8tracks.com/followingcaligula/i-m-a-wanderer-now-sorrow-befalls-me). Tentatively posting here because reasons.
> 
> Chapter title is from the song "Fangs" by Little Red Lung.
> 
> It's been edited but please let me know if something stands out/is wrong/looks weird, and thank you for reading.

It's been 24 - no, 25 - years.

25 years since he's seen Dorian. Bael still remembers how they both felt that morning, the crushing weight on his chest, how Dorian had begged and begged for just one more day, please, just a few more hours.

Bael had agreed, and then left in the morning before Dorian woke up. Just like they knew he would.

At the thought of all he'd lost, the Anchor begins to thrum. Bael clenches his fist to force the tingling to stop, rolls over on his little sleeping pad. He thinks of those nights in Skyhold, of leading the Inquisition, of how it felt to wake up one day and realize everyone was just...going. The glory days were gone. The crinkles around Blackwall's eyes became deeper. Cassandra's jowls began to sag. The hairs on Vivienne's head, always so closely shaved, would come in more and more grey as time went on.

But not everyone got to grow old. Baelfire still remembers Solas disappearing, and the aftermath of his return. He doesn't know where the Dread Wolf is now, though they've crossed paths a few times since then. Those days are always stormy.

They'd lost Sera during Solas' first "return", too. Split nearly in two, from her shoulder to her hip. It wasn't _right_ , the way she went out. It wasn't right how Cullen went out. But at least he got to choose how he went out. Choice was always important to Cullen, even choices made in the dark of the night during an anxiety attack so intense that the only way to clear your head was to pitch yourself off the battlements. Cullen's last, gasping breaths, his pained smile, his wheezing " _Thank the Maker_ " as he clutched Barris' face in his bloody hands, still haunted Bael's nightmares.

It wasn't _right_.

People like Sera and Cullen didn't deserve to die. People like Sera and Cullen deserved to live forever.

People like Bael didn't.

And now he was losing one of the people who _did_...though, truth be told, he'd lost Dorian 24 - no, 25 - years ago, when they both decided this was for the best.

The howling winds outside seemed to mock his anger. The elf pushed himself up off his bedroll and decided to start getting dressed; he was almost upon Skyhold. He pulled on his pants, and his loose tunic, then the boots he was still loathe to wear but accepted because of the snow that always piled around the keep. Next came his cloak, heavy and dark green - useful for blending into the heavy forests he typically frequented, and a shade picked almost specifically because it contrasted heavily with his marked hand.

As for that, well, next was to wrap up his hands, to cover it up. It still throbbed, and some days it hurt so much worse than others - hurt mirroring his own internal anguish. Solas had told him once before, during one of their post-Breach meetings, that it would get easier. Bael didn't want it to get easier. He didn't want to forget his friends.

Thinking about the blasted Dread Wolf, how this was all his fault, Bael growled. He put his bow and quiver on his back, threw his hood on, and packed as quick as he could. Fucking _Dread Wolf_. Bael had been devout, once, a long time ago. Patient. He'd built alters to gods. He still proudly bore his blood writing. But this was the fault of the gods, stupid gods, who weren't ever actually gods.

Next time he saw Solas, he'd probably try to kill him. Again.

But for now, he swallowed his anger. It wouldn't do to send Dorian off to the Beyond while he was still raging inside, no matter how unfair all of this was.

Bael kept his hood up, and followed a group of pilgrims into Skyhold. He hadn't been back here in so long, and though cosmetically not much had changed it was...different.

Maybe it was because he wasn't seeing it from an _Inquisitior's_ perspective. He was seeing it from a _visitor's_ perspective. Pilgrims typically followed a path through Skyhold: in through the gates, to stand in the front courtyard, to hear a brief recount of the Inquisitor's victory.

Asha'bellanar's laugh echoed in his head. _One day someone will sum up the events of your life so quickly_. It was true, but he didn't think it would be so _soon_. And most of it was wrong. _That_ was Cassandra's prophecy. Bael hung back from the group as their guide spoke, towards what had once been Cullen's tower; remembering the former commander, he couldn't help but smile fondly as he laid a hand on the stone. Then, an idea struck him.

The guide began to lead the group of pilgrims up a set of stone steps. Bael waited till they'd neared the Herald's Rest - another source of fond memories for him - and hung back as they all piled in...then turned, and immediately began dashing up to the battlements.

He was quick, a blur of movement that rendered him practically invisible. He crept through the first tower, now an office or a study or something for someone, and stopped short just outside of the door to the former commander's tower. Cullen had staked his claim for it specifically because he wanted to watch the forward approach. It was the only way anyone could attack them unless a dragon swooped in from one of the sides. He wanted to be prepared.

A profound sorrow bled into Bael's soul at the memory of what once. At Cullen's sheer determination during Haven, at Roderick's last minute change of loyalties, at the workers who'd thrown themselves between the Red Templars and Haven. Who had told him that, anyway? Josephine, of course. Josephine had always reminded him of the important role he played. He missed Josephine, so much.

She'd been the first to notice his unchanging features, anyway. Always so perceptive, their Josephine. He'd be seeing her soon, too, he reckoned, provided her almost supernatural ability to find him was still present.

Bael pushed the door to the old office open, and stepped inside.

Just like Skyhold, it was different, but for all the wrong reasons. The warm, red hue that seemed to permeate the whole room was still present. The shelves, the desk, all decor was in the same places; there was even an added bonus of a small portrait of Cullen - one Bael remembered having commissioned, one Cullen _hated_ sitting still for - by the window. Beside it was one of Barris, looking just as impressive. He smiled fondly, touched the frame of Barris' painting. "Hello, old friends," He whispered, voice trembling.

The office smelled wrong. Cullen had always smelled like...like _clean_. Like soap, and honey, and snow. Something pure. Something that Bael always considered the smell of "home".

He pushed away from the painting and scrubbed at his eyes furiously. Stupid, sad, weepy, that's what he felt like. He stood there for a moment, in a daze, wondering if he should just head to the castle proper or creep back in with the rest of the pilgrims, when the sound of footsteps caught his ear.

Elf ears were always sensitive, and he'd had years to develop his strengths, hearing wise. They were heading towards Cullen's office. In a panic he jumped the desk, knocking papers and books off, and scurried up the ladder to the bedroom.

It was darker, with the repaired roof. The rubble and the creeping vines in the corner had been removed, the bed was larger, there were more candles. Whoever had made these changes, Bael imagined, would have had a hell of a time convincing Cullen to do them. But there was no way the tower could go forever without a full roof, taking in snow and rain.

Bael leaned over the trap door and listened as the same door he'd used to enter was pushed open, and a familiar voice snapped out, "Whoever is in here, you are intruding and you _must leave._ "

The voice was heavy with age, croaky, but Bael would've recognized it anywhere. He didn't bother to call out a warning before dropping back down - ignoring the ladder completely - and landing in a crouch in front of the person that had stormed in.

As he dropped, he'd heard a sword being unsheathed. The man tapped the floor in front of Bael with the blade's tip and said, "Stand up. _Slowly_ , don't give me anymore trouble than you already have."

Bael puts his hands up and raises, slow as he can, from a crouched position. He keeps his head down and says, "I see you finally decided to leave the barn. How long did that take?"

Blackwall is caught off guard by the question. He sputters, pushes the tip of his sword blade into the floor, sputters again then says, “Only 40 bloody years. Are you really - "

The elf puts one hand down and reaches up with the other to tug his hood off. Aside from a few new scars - one on his lip not dissimilar to Cullen's famed scar, and one that went diagonal from just above his right eyebrow, across his nose, down to his left cheek - Bael's face hadn't changed much. His eyes were no longer bright blue but a dazzling green, no doubt thanks to the Anchor's magic, and he still wore the heavy red make up that had become his trademark.

Blackwall sheathed his sword and let out a soft, grandfatherly sigh. "Some things never change," he said as he stepped to the elf and touched the corner of his eye. Blackwall had; the years had aged his face, made him seem softer. He was definitely older and fully grey; his thick hair was held back by a simple black string. "I can't believe you'd..."

Blackwall put his hands on Bael's shoulders, then pulled him forward for a hug that was returned with equal force. When they pulled away, both were teary-eyed.

"Have I - did I - what all have I missed?" Bael wiped his own eyes with his hand, smearing his make up down his cheek just a little more. "I'm sorry. I should've written or - or _something_."

"There would've been nothing for it," Blackwall turned and shut the door to the office closed. He leaned against it for a minute before saying, "You missed Josie and Barris by a while now."

"I'm sorry." Bael played with the edge of his cloak. "How long ago? Will they be returning soon, or..."

"I shouldn't think so." Blackwall closed his eyes and leaned his head against the doorframe. "Barris stepped down a while ago."

"Barris stepped down?" Bael echoed. "Why would he - "

"Do you honestly blame him? I mean, fuck's sake kid. He watched the love of his life wither away in front of him. _He_ saw Cullen do it, remember? You don't get to come back from that.

"And then you just up and vanish. Your "Barris, I need you" was the only thing keeping him on. Once that was gone, well. I stepped up. Leliana asked me to, though at the time we'd all assumed it'd be only temporary."

Bael put a hand to his face and rubbed his eyes. "I didn't realize..." Of course he couldn't blame him; he wouldn't have blamed any of them. "I'm so sorry."

Blackwall waited to see if Bael would say anything more. When he didn't, the commander finally, mournfully continued. "At the time, sure, I was angry with him. He just up and bloody left. But now I know how he felt." He closed his eyes and bowed his head. "It's hard, when you lose someone like that. I can't put it into words. Though, I suppose I won't have to soon enough."

The weight of Blackwall's words slammed into him full force. "To lose someone," Bael echoed weakly. Blackwall simply grunted.

Blackwall turned back to him, slowly. His expression was somehow sadder than before. Bael tried to swallow the lump in his throat, and lowered his gaze to the floor. "Oh. I...I didn't. I'm so sorry, Blackwall."

"It's been a year. I mean. I've had _time_. I guess."

Bael has to fight back a painful sob.

"She just got sick. Too sick. We couldn't really do much. Powders and poultices only go so far. In the end she was surrounded by people she loved, and I think that's all that mattered to her."

Bael is quiet for a few moments, then says again, "I'm sorry. I should have been here."

Blackwall reaches a hand up to wipe fresh tears out of his own eyes. "It wouldn't have mattered. She wouldn't have wanted you to have to sit through that again, not after...well." He takes, and releases, a deep breath. "But we're fine. You should, if you're staying, you should meet the kids. And the grandson."

Bael perks up. "Grandson! I didn't know you had a _grandson_." Blackwall beams proudly. "That's wonderful news, Blackwall. I'd love to." The reason for why Bael returned to Skyhold suddenly swings back and hits him in the head. Before he meets anyone, he realizes, he has to check on someone else. "But, before I do...is he...? Is he, I mean - " "He's still here." Blackwall turns back around and opens the door for Bael. "Come on," he says softly, "I'll take you to him."


	2. yesterday was hard on all of us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by leigh. please let me know if there's any mistakes, and thank you so much for all the lovely comments and the kudos and bookmarks.
> 
> note: i didn't have a specific mental image set up for most of the portraits, so whatever you elect to see there is good.
> 
> i should also note that while ser barris was mentioned in the previous chapter, this is in a timeline where the inquisition sided with the mages. i just think it's bogus that he's never mentioned unless you side with templars, and i adore him, so...

The Great Hall was _beautiful_.

It'd been a quarter of an age since Bael had seen the inside of it, and unlike Cullen's - now Blackwall's, he'd learned, as Commander Barris had stepped down not too long after Bael had vanished - it had changed significantly. The only thing that remained the same was the Dalish glass motif; the rough wooden tables were now replaced by beautifully carved and stained ones, with Free Marcher imagery along the edges. Every chair was high-backed and upholstered with fine red velvet.

The grandest sight of all, Bael was surprised to find, were the portraits. Grand displays, of each of Bael's old inner circle, along with his three advisers. He had to stop in his tracks and study them; there were thirteen of them all, six on each side of the hall, one behind the grand throne. Bael distinctly remembered there being three windows there when he'd left, but now there were two, framing a large portrait he did not recall sitting still for.

"Grand, isn't it?" Blackwall mused.

Bael was speechless. It _was_ grand. He wasn't surprised to see Josephine's and Blackwall's were next to each other, nor was he shocked to see them painted as though they were facing one another. For the most part, they were lovely.

Except for his own.

He stood facing the Grand Hall with one fist on a sword at his hip, and the other - the one with the Anchor - raised and clenched. Soft green light shone from between his clenched fingers. He'd never worn clothing as grand as in the painting, nor had he been keen on wearing his hair loose. In front of him stood a wolf, angry eyes daring viewers to touch the canvas; behind him was a halla, a young one, still with velvet on it's antlers. Bael had never kept halla at Skyhold, and unless the wolf was intended to be Solas he'd never had one around. It all seemed wrong. But his _face_ was right; a soft contour, round eyes, red-gold hair. Even his vallaslin was correct. The contrast made his stomach flop about.

"Who painted these?" He asked Blackwall, unable to swallow both his horror and his awe. Blackwall put a hand on his sword, to steady his shaking arm.

"Scout Harding," he said after a moment. "She had to do - well, some of us from memory. A memory is all some of us are now. Sera. Cullen. Josephine." He cast a mournful glance at the elf. "You."

Baelfire looked back at the portraits, and took in the differences in how they looked from his memories. Creases in Vivienne's face, longer hair on Cassandra. Josephine's own hair fell in soft curls over her shoulders. Cole seemed...strange, even for Cole. As though drawn from a memory of a memory, his straw-colored hair long, his pale skin waxy. Save for their dead companions and Bael himself, _everyone_ had at least a hint of grey to their hair, age to their faces.

He forced himself to look away from Dorian's portrait, and turned to Blackwall.

"You seem more imposing than you actually are, I know," Blackwall mused, staring over the one painting Bael refused to look at again, at least for now. "But it's heroic. You have no idea what you were to them. What you _still_ are."

"A myth," Bael postulated.

"A _legend_ ," Blackwall corrected. "A bloody fuckin' hero. There's no one here right now who wouldn't be here because of you." Blackwall reached out and took Bael by the arm, lead him to the door that was once his own quarters. "Come on. We shouldn't put this off. He doesn't have long, I shouldn't think."

 

_______________

 

Bael followed Blackwall up the stairs. They had to move slower now, up the tower, and as they did Blackwall explained Dorian's condition. A cough, not unlike Josephine's, had developed, and he'd been bedridden for weeks.

"We'd liked to have never found you," Blackwall muttered a few swears as he had to stop again. "Blasted fuckin' things. It took months."

"I got good at disappearing." Bael explained softly. "I am...grateful, that you did." Truth be told, Bael would not have forgiven himself if he hadn't said goodbye to Dorian. Even after so long apart, the morning that he left still weighed heavily on his heart. He was always terrible at goodbyes.

"He's done a good job at leading us, since you left." The man beamed, mostly to himself. "He offered to job to Josephine several times, but she always turned him down. And to Vivienne. Once to Varric. I don't think it'd still be going as strongly without him."

They hovered outside of Dorian's door for a moment, before Blackwall turned to him and said, "I can go in with you, if you like, or I can stay out here."

It was, oddly, a hard decision to make. But Bael shook his head, and put his hands on Blackwall's shoulders. "Thank you, old friend," his voice shook softly.

Blackwall's smile was sad and he nodded.

"His caretakers won't let him see too many people for too long. I'll be in Josie's old office, when you're done."

Bael nodded, and opened the door.

 

_______

 

The elf closed the door behind him, and waited a moment, trying to catch his breath. He could hear the _clack-clack_ of heels on the stone floor. His insides felt tight, too tight, and he thought of fleeing - but no, _no_. He would not flee. He did not stay away 25 years for this. He did not fight an ancient darkspawn, had not been cursed as he was with eternal life, simply to turn and run away now.

He would see Dorian off to the Beyond.

Bael steeled himself, and climbed up the stairs to the bedroom. The air was fragrant, the scent of flowers everywhere. The kind that smelled like death, Bael thought. And there were many bouquets everywhere, all different types, very few of which grew around Skyhold. Bael thought his legs would give out on him as he looked at the bed.

Dorian was propped up by fine pillows. Aged but not ancient, eyes closed, with his wrinkled face clean-shaven and his greyed hairs pulled back into a loose tail. He wore soft, red robes embroidered with green and gold - more Dalish symbols, Bael saw, and he recognized the robe as a gift that had been sent from the clan after their adventures in Wycome.

Bael wanted to scream.

There were two other occupants to the room. One was a man, also far up in years, with deep brown skin and a closely shaven head. He sat at Dorian's bed, clutching one of his hands and speaking to him gently. The other - a woman, in heavy mage robes with a stave on her back - perked up when she saw him. She clutched an old tome to her chest and eyed him suspiciously, taking in his worn grey cloak and clothes. "I'm sorry, serah," she nodded to the door, "but pilgrim's are not allowed in the Inquisitor's private chambers."

Bael opened his mouth, likely to tell her to piss off, but no words would come out. Her frowned deepened and he knew it was likely she would call for guards at any minute.

And she might have, or blasted him out of the window, or something, had Dorian not spoken up.

"Mathilde, my dear," he wheezed, "don't be stupid. Can't you see that's my grandson?"

Bael's eyes teared up.

Dorian turned his head to the man at his side, and said something that Bael couldn't quite hear. He nodded and stood, and strode around the bed to take the woman's arm. "Let's go check in with the commander," he suggested, and though he eyed Bael suspiciously, he nodded as they passed. He seemed just as reluctant to leave as Mathilde, but more respectful of Dorian's wishes.

Bael watched them go. He didn't turn his head back to his former lover until Dorian spoke again. "Eoghan is such a sweet man. I don't know what he's going to do without me."

"Is he your..." Bael's put his hands together, gripping loosely the fingers of his left hand in his right. He didn't really want to ask, but he figured he should.

Dorian studied him for a moment, turned his head to the side a bit, and said plainly, "Yes." Bael felt like he'd swallowed rocks. "He is my husband. He has been for fifteen years."

Bael's gaze dropped to the floorboards.

"I'm...very happy for you." Stupid. He was stupid. Dorian was older now, much older than Bael. And he deserved someone his age, someone who could greet death.

"I suppose you're the only one who is, then," Dorian rubbed at his chin. "Eoghan has my love, amatus, but he will never have my heart. And he knows this. He knows I am....not able to give him that."

Bael finally raised his eyes. "You deserved better," he whispered.

He was grateful to find that Dorian did not look amused, or angry. He looked sad and sickly, positively undignified. If the Dorian that Bael had met, so many years ago, could see himself now, he'd likely be annoyed. For some reason, that felt good, that felt soothing.

Dorian opened his arms for Bael. "At least let me touch you, one last time."

Bael wasted no time crossing the room - shedding his bow, his quiver, the dagger at his hip - and crawling into the bed. It wasn't the bed they'd laid together on but it was the same frame, the same sheets, the same blankets; Bael could still smell the oils and perfumes Dorian was fond of, woven into the sheets. He felt guilty, crying like a child; Dorian was the one dying. _He_ was the one who should be comforted.

He was being selfish. But it wasn't _fair_. Dorian didn't _deserve_ to die. Dorian, along with Sera, along with Cullen, along with Josephine and Varric and their whole damned party, they all deserved to live forever.

Not Bael.

And yet, here they were. It made him weep harder. All those years missed, time together carved from their lives, because Bael couldn't stomach the thought of watching Dorian and their friends wither away.

The mage put a cold, bony hand on the back of Bael's head. To the elf, it was as warm and soft as the first time they'd laid together all those years ago.

"I'm so sorry, amatus," he whispered.

"No."

"I am." Bael pulled away to look at him and Dorian used his thumb to wipe away tears. It was a fruitless act. "I am so, so sorry. To leave you alone in this world? Look at me. I'm a dying man, but I will see people I love again." Dorian's sympathetic smile finally faltered and he, too, began to shed tears. "Oh, to leave you behind. I am so sorry, amatus."

Bael buried his face back into Dorian's chest and began crying again. He listened to Dorian talk - more of the same, each word hitting harder and harder - and clung to him. Grief was heavy in his bones, in his heart, in his soul.


	3. the parting glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and it's done. please don't hurt me.
> 
> more fun facts: there's a song called "The Parting Glass". It's a great song, and and really sad; it's something that I headcanon as being a good Free Marcher mourning song. And so for obvious reasons I'm going to suggest you [listen to the Emily Kinney version during the funeral portion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VPTxl_gT-mU) because I am a terrible person and I have no soul.
> 
> Thank you to all the views/comments/kudos/bookmarks and especially a big thanks to Leigh for beta'ing, Liz for beta'ing and being alive and my Anders for promoting the heck out of this and being a general peach. To all readers/commentors/those three/anyone I missed, I love you all.

Bael stayed by Dorian's side as much as he could, in the next month. He gleaned all he could of what he'd missed, learned of their friends' whereabouts.

Bull was dead. The Qun had humored the Inquisition and sent his bones back at their request, though at that point they weren't really important anymore. They had Bull's weapon. That was all that mattered to them, in the end.

Vivienne still led the reformed Circle, and had brought a tenuous peace between them and the College of Enchanters. Bael was impressed, though not surprised. After all this - after Dorian - was over, he thought, maybe, he'd pay her a visit.

Cassandra still sat on the Sunburst Throne, even more popular than Justinia due to her time with the Inquisition. Leliana was no longer the Left Hand but played no small role in the lives of the active Right and Left Hands.

Varric, Bael already knew, was a reluctant but well-liked ambassador to Orzammar. As far as anyone knew, Cole was still with him, though he made it a point to go between Skyhold, Val Royeux, and Kirkwall as often as he could. Dorian assured Bael that Vivienne and Cassandra had softened, to a degree, on him. That _was_ a surprise.

Dorian rarely spoke about himself or his work with the Inquisition. In the weeks they had left together he spoke highly of Eoghan, and of the work Blackwall had done after Barris' absence. Bael didn't get comfortable at Skyhold, but he made it a point to meet everyone - Blackwall's grandson, and his daughters' husbands, as well as Eoghan's son, and to get to know his daughter - Mathilde - better. She softened to him, as well. And as far as anyone knew, Baelfire's name was Kenai Mahariel, a visiting member of his clan, named for the famed and missing Hero of Ferelden. Bael liked pretending he was someone else.

Up until the morning he woke up, and headed to his old room, taking the steps two at a time.

He pushed open the door to find Eoghan sitting at Dorian's bedside. He was quieter than usual, and Dorian's eyes were closed, chest heaving up and down, up and down. And Bael knew.

He refused to run away. When Eoghan lifted his head and beckoned him forward, he swallowed his tears and approached the bed. While Eoghan sat on the right side of Dorian's bed, Bael sat on the left side. He took Dorian's other hand and squeezed it, sat quiet for a while.

"He won't wake up again, I don't believe," Eoghan said. They both knew it, but it hurt to hear it confirmed. Bael nodded. "But I want you to stay."

"I had no intention of leaving," The elf says, quicker than he intended.

"I know." Eoghan is quiet in his response. With his right hand on Dorian's, he reaches his left across the mage's lap, holds it out. Bael takes it in his own.

"He never called me amatus." Eoghan's voice is soft, soft as Dorian's breathing, soft as the sheets.

Bael couldn't bring himself to say he was sorry, not about that. He didn't know why. It wasn't fair to Eoghan, to love a man who couldn't truly bring himself to love him back. But Eoghan's next words surprised him.

"I do not think I would have wanted him to," Dorian inhales sharply and for a moment they both think that's it, as dramatic as them man ever was, of course he'd interrupt a tender moment. But his breathing goes back to normal, and Eoghan's thumb rubs on the crease between Bael's thumb and index finger. "It would not have felt right."

There are a lot of things Bael wants to say to that. Logically, he _should_ express apologies, especially for having been an obvious roadblock in their relationship. For having come in, and stolen Dorian's last few weeks away. Selfish, selfish, selfish, he chides himself. But he takes what Dorian said to heart, and allows himself to be selfish about this.

Finally, he says, "Thank you," and Eoghan squeezes his hand. Thank you for taking care of him. Thank you for being with him. Thank you for loving him. Thank you, ultimately, for being able to greet death like Dorian could, like Bael could not.

 

_____________________

 

In the end, Dorian passes away in the most inane, boring fashion. One minute, he takes a breath, and the next he doesn't. It's not until his hand is icy that Bael leans forward and lays on the bed next to him, swallowing bitter, selfish tears. No admonishing springs up, no self hatred. Solas' words echo cruelly in his head: one day, this won't hurt as much; one day, he won't remember what it was like to mourn. But right _now_ he could remember. He could remember everything. Dancing at the Winter Palace, their first real kiss, unearthing Dalish lore together. Saving the fucking world together was a high point. And Dorian in his quest to save Tevinter, and Bael waiting for him at Skyhold, equal parts proud of his work and terrified that he wouldn't return.

It felt good to remember.

Bael did not leave Dorian's side till Eoghan prompted him. They walked the battlements and talked as though the greatest part of their lives hadn't just been taken from them; in those dark and miserable hours, Bael worked desperate to fill the hole torn into him by Dorian's death with Eoghan's stories and laugh. He got to know Dorian again, through the eyes of someone else, and that helped.

It didn't heal the wound, but it soothed the pain.

It was days later, while Bael was packing, that Mathilde approached him. He'd been sleeping in Blackwall's room since Dorian had passed, not wanting to intrude on what little mourning space Eoghan and his children had.

"Are you leaving already, ser Mahariel?" She asked nervously, eyeing his packed bag and weapons. "So soon? It's not been two weeks since..."

Bael did not respond immediately. "I cannot stay much longer. Till tomorrow, I think."

"But the funeral is tomorrow."

"I am aware." Bael turned to face her. "And I will stay for it. But I cannot stay forever."

He turned back to his items, pretending to still be packing. Mathilde didn't leave, though she was silent, and finally she asked - sounding exasperated, and scared - "Are you...him?"

"Good eye!" Bael clenched his fist, though she couldn't see. "I am, indeed, a him."

"I just mean! I did not mean to offend. Your hand," she sounded frustrated, just like he felt. "I know I'm not supposed to know. Father told me you were dead. That's the story, isn't it? Died fighting the Dead Wolf-"

" _Dread_ Wolf."

"...I apologize." Bael turned back around to face her. "You are, though, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"And you wouldn't stay to see your friends?"

"I _can't_. That is as much for me as it is for them." Bael sat down on the bed. "I'm sorry if I disappoint you, Mathilde."

Mathilde shook her head. "I am sorry I pressed, serah. Herald." Her voice seemed to tremble, now. "Can I...trouble you for something?" Bael shrugged. "Where are you headed to, after this? I ask because, if you aren't staying. I just know father would want you to have some of Dorian's ashes."

Bael wasn't sure he could handle that, carrying around a part of Dorian like that. Especially not after so long apart. But he thought about it; he wondered if it would really be so bad. At last, he answered, "Ostwick."

"Ostwick." Mathilde repeated, then nodded hurriedly. "Three months, yes? That's three months travel."

"From here."

Mathilde watched him, struggling to find her words, then finally decided not to speak. She gave a bow and hurried down the ladder.

Bael listened to her leave, listened to her shut the door, before he allowed himself to slump. He still felt the press of Dorian's hand to his cheek, still smelled the flowers of his room. His upper lip curled back, lower lip began to shake, and he suddenly couldn't steady his trembling hands on his knees. He knew what was coming and stuffed the knuckles of hand into his mouth to muffle the pained howls that came.

Dorian was dead. Dorian was _dead_. Dorian had died broken hearted, not because he _was_ dying, but because Baelfire Lavellan, Herald of Andraste, leader of the reformed Inquisition, _couldn't_. As far as either knew, they would never see each other again.

Bael saw no reason to continue biting back his sobs, not when a large chunk of him had been ripped out. He stayed there, in Blackwall's bed, feeling like a black hole.

 

_________________

But he kept his promise. When they set up Dorian's pyre in the courtyard, Bael lingered around to watch Blackwall officiate, to watch Eoghan take a torch to the kindling. Mathilde and her brother had been the ones to prepare Dorian's body, washing the red silks he'd been wearing when Bael arrived four weeks ago, twining flowers into his hair and laying them around his body till they piled around the pyre.

Bael stayed to watch Eoghan set it all aflame, then turned and hurried out of Skyhold. He walked off the trail, till he could crest the lowest ridge and be able to peer back over the walls. In the dark of the mass of mourners, he could see the flames circling high. He didn't let himself cry this time.

Out of the swirling snow, to his left, trotted a large wolf. It's fur was a deep brown and course, eyes white and reflective in the waning daylight. Bael wasn't startled by it's appearance, and instead huffed out an annoyed, "You're late."

The wolf ignored him and walked a circle around him before sitting down and looking where Bael stared. The pyre would burn a long while but Bael wasn't going to wait for it to go down.

"I'm surprised you even came at all." The wolf's ears went back and it looked at him, letting out an annoyed whine. Bael reached a hand over and scratched behind his ears. "Thank you."

He kicked some snow loose and turned his gaze back down the ridge, then began to slowly descend. The wolf followed him immediately, staying close behind. If nothing, Bael thought, the company would be good. And it was nice to know that, despite his age, despite his words and what Bael perceived to be unneeded cruelty, Solas had still come.


End file.
